And She's Got Me Bustling Tables
by FablerPhoenix
Summary: During meals on the RLS Legacy, Jim was forced into waiting upon the band of criminals, and if Mr.Scroop was feeling unusually cruel, it meant big trouble for him. Then some one spills the beans, stirring up a whole new level of trouble. Silver&Crew x Jim


Disclaimer: Characters belong to Disney, the original ones belong to Robert Louis Stevenson.

Warnings: It's Silver x Jim and I highly doubt it can be interpreted as father and son, so if you've got queer fear, I suggest you scram.

I forced myself not to write an out-right mature fanfic, but it's still incredibly suggestive.

For the sake of this fiction, I've divided the mess area and the kitchen into two separate rooms. I also put a sink in the kitchen.

Now, if I'm right, the industrial revolution brought on two things: steam-boats and underwear for the regular classes. Judging from the way they dress in the movie and the fact that their ships are still wooden, even if they are using crazy technology, I'm going to say they don't wear underwear. So sue me!

* * *

There is no way to tell time out in space, more specifically dinner-time on the RLS Legacy, save for the growling of the crew's stomachs, the warm glow of orange light streaming out on deck from the galley, and the din of the rag-tag assembly of species blabbing away, pounding at tables and nearly pounding at each other with only the fear of Silver and his cannon arm keeping their hands off of each others throats.

This particular evening, dinner was running late (thanks to another one of Jim and Silver's long-boat expeditions), and thus the crew was getting much more rowdy than usual. The two responsible for feeding the crew were dashing in circles through the kitchen, Jim crawling on the floor or climbing onto the counter to shuffle through the cupboards for ingredients, measuring cups, bowls and the like as Silver called out with unnecessary volume directions and demands. It was more to reassure the crew that dinner was actually being made than to inform Jim of any thing, because Silver already had him read through all the ship's recipes after he'd finished all the manual chores with unprecedented speed.

Regardless of these efforts, the taunting aroma of a half cooked meal was picking at their noses, or whatever organ served the same function, and the clamoring only grew with time. The ship's bomber, sitting right next to the door, prodded on by the other members of his table, gave the swinging door a good whip with his tail. By chance, it just so happened to hit Jim on the back, making him trip forward onto his hands and knees. He made a low agitated groan as the door continued to swing back and forth, slowly dying down, squeaking and letting in filtered complaints, "Where's the bloomin' grub?" and so on.

Silver immediately froze, casting his worried and pitying eyes on Jim. Every day he had to witness the usual brutality of the crew and stand by. The best he could do to prevent their constant abuse was to subject Jim to endless menial chores and tuck a sea coat around his exhausted heaving body when no one was looking. He forced himself to snap out of his heart-broken compunction, remembering the temperamental vagabonds outside and the very real danger of them causing an early ruckus. Turning from Jim to hide his still miserable expression, he spoke for once in a reasonable tone, perhaps because he was afraid his tenderness would show in his voice. "Ah, Jim, we never gonna get this made in time. Ye best take what's here now and start servin' it." With those words he took out a large pot and tilted the floating vat, pouring it's steaming mushy brown contents into it. He couldn't help but pass an anxious glance in Jim's direction to check his condition, half ready to take back his request and do the deed himself.

Jim shifted all his weight into one arm and rubbed the other along his back, feeling the beginning of a nasty bruise. He was partially glad it didn't hit him in the head, for it surely would have cracked open his skull. Slowly pulling himself to his feet once the door had settled and Silver had given him new orders, he pressed his palms against the bottom his back, arching it as far as he could, chest pressed out, head turned up and trying to get his spine to crack, taking sharp uneasy breaths. Silver would greatly regret catching sight of this later into the night. He quickly averted his gaze to start on the next batch of stew. It took great effort to force himself to look only at the vegetables he was cutting as Jim approached to retrieve the pot, looking curiously and suspiciously at Silver's back but eventually turning away and bustling off into the galley. Silver let his eyes wander to see Jim exit. He grunted, cleared his throat nervously and shook his head, trying to distract himself from expanding on those images of his young helper.

Jim came stumbling in with the gigantic pot, having a hard time balancing the thing, burning hot and probably heavier than him. The monsters lining the walls broke out with small cheers and sighs of relief, finding this a small cause for jubilation and toasts with purp juice, though it only made them crave for rum. The only one who took no joy in this nor any other occasion was fixated on young Hawkins, as he always seemed to be, head following him as he propped the pot on a table and began to scoop rations into bowls handed to him all at once. It was a lengthy process since the pot was rather tall and not completely full. He had to reach in awkwardly so as not to burn his arm on the rim. The arachnid sneered smugly and was conniving some way to bring mischief upon the poor boy. He nudged the bearded four-armed behemoth next to him with his claw, giving him the giant's undivided attention. "It'sssss gonna take that boy all day to get to thissss sssssside."

Striking a dumb-founded look, he left his jaw wide open as he took several moments to process the notion, but upon grasping the concept he and his neighbors who'd over-heard the remark began grumbling angrily to each other once again, working their way up to banging their fists on the tables and calling out, "Serve this side first boy, if you know what's good for you!"

This put Jim in quite a predicament, for the side he was serving first made no reaction. If he continued as he was, the other side would beat him. If he went to serve the other side, the side he had previously been serving would blame not the other side but him, and also beat him. He was tempted to tell them to shut up and do it themselves, but he was a bit more choice with his words thanks to Silver's scoldings. In the time frame given, he concluded he had one very simple option. To serve faster.

He mused in his mind that now he must know exactly how his mother felt. Setting down the ladle he'd been using to serve on the table, he slipped his hands behind his back and had the bow holding his apron on undone in a flash. Take note that in Hawkin's case, the apron was less of a tool to protect his clothing from stains and dirt but more like an accessory of humiliation, worn for the enjoyment of the crew.

Everyone quieted to stare at him in semi-wonder. Pulling the strap off over his head, he folded it up into a neat bundle and held it against his left hip, then in a strange dance wedged the pot to the ledge of the table with his free hand, raised his cushioned hip to meet with the fiery bottom of the pot and with great agility let go of his bundled apron and brought the pot completely off the table and resting it's weight on his side, holding it in place by the handle opposite to him. This made him and the pot mobile, and it was on a lower level and tilted, so he had better access to the inside.

The crew was amused by the way the pot made him hobble strangely from table to table and satisfied at how easily he bended to their commands, and was once again content. Scroop however was only further upset by his plan being foiled, and narrowed his eyes as he racked his lack of brains for another plan. Sliding the blades of his claw together, back and forth he seemed to retract into the shadow of his corner, lying in wait for Jim to fly into his web.

As Jim came around he put great effort into avoiding eye contact with this stalker who seemed to have an unhealthy obsession for making him miserable, looking in a completely different direction as he dipped the ladle into the pot. He almost nearly let out an audible haughty sigh, one of his cheeks puffing up and deflating as he rolled his eyes. Seeing his chance, Scroop pinched at a corner of the bundle on Jim's hip and yanked it away with a jerk. The bottom of the pot was dragged with the motion, swinging up and spilling it's flaming contents onto the shirt of the unfortunate victim.

He gasped and cried, "Aaaaugh!" and dropped the now mostly empty pot onto the floor, which brought every one's focus to him once again. Scroop, with a sarcastically concerned tone mumbled to Jim, "Ooh, that looked like it hurt. Let me help you," then outreached his clipper to the afflicted area and took several meaningless snips at the front of Jim's shirt, creating several gaping holes that left the majority of his upper half exposed. For reasons unknown to the better half of society, the crew burst out in laughter and cheer upon seeing a half naked boy writhing in pain and slathered in steaming stew. He hunched forward in an attempt to part the torn, heated shirt from his skin and looked up, locking eyes with his grinning prime suspect. Spotting the apron in his claw, the corners of his mouth dipped into a hateful glower. He took deep steaming breaths that raised and lowered his back like the body of a sleeping cat through his nose since his lips were as sturdy as stone and wouldn't budge from their showing of malice. He was very much ready to slug the spider psycho in the face, but he knew yet again who the crew would side with, and even if he was lucky enough to get out with his life, he'd only win Silver's disappointment at his lack of self control.

He snatched the empty pot by the handle and made a dash into the kitchen, feeling the crowd of eyes trace along his retreating figure and hearing Scroop making a low rolling chuckle that made him grit his teeth with frustration. He set the pot down on the counter and wiped as much of the now some what cooled down edible residue on his shirt off and into a bucket, which he'd try to remember to empty off the side of the ship. He flicked the faucet on the sink for cold water and grabbed a tattered graying rag off a shelf, feeling the water with his index and middle finger before drenching the rag in it's flow, then wringing most of the water out and grating it along the seams of his shirt, transferring the bulk of the broth into the rag, rinsing the rag every now and then. Soaking the rag a final time, he turned the water off and didn't wring it, instead pressing it against his seared chest through the holes in his shirt, closing his eyes and making quiet noises of initial pain, but eventual refreshment.

Holding the rag in place he turned around and propped his back on the wall, taking a brief moment to relax; however, his peace was soon interrupted by a startled voice. "Jimbo! What's 'appened to ye?" Drawing his hand off the scorching injuries and opening his eyes with alarm himself, he pushed himself off the wall and was reluctant to look at Silver, for his expression was hesitant and showed he was with-holding information. He retracted his arms into his shirt and turned it around backwards, moving the holes to the back and, though done with difficulty, he managed to tilt the center vat and pour another helping into the pot he'd set on the floor. He lugged it off the floor and passed out the doors, back first, mumbling apprehensively before he was gone, as though his answer wasn't vague enough and he needed to make it inaudible, "An accident."

Jim started where he'd left off, placing the pot on the table's edge and bending over to pick up the ladle he'd dropped on the floor. It took great effort to pretend nothing had happened, especially with his back showing and the awkward feeling of wearing a backwards shirt, but he managed to keep a straight face. The tactic would have worked, were it not for the third round of Scroop's harassment. He rested his head atop one of his claw with a giddy smirk, as though to say Jim was making things too easy. As Jim turned his back to Scroop to serve the giant next to him, Scroop took a single clip at the rim of Jim's pants, pressing the razor ends of his claws together with extra friction for a loud sound effect. The cut severed the belt keeping his garment in place, and regardless of what cartoons teach us, they slipped down gradually, helped by the enlarged rim created by the divide which now brought his creamy, peachy bottom into view as all looked on with anticipation.

As the finishing touch, Scroop drizzled his purp juice down Jim's back. It flowed suggestively between and over his cheeks, emphasizing their round shape. He sat in admiration of his work as a tremor worked it's way from Jim's head to toe at contact with the purple gooey liquid. Jim's face tanned scarlet rose and he spun round slinging a pathetic, rage powered fist at Scroop. Scroop raised one of his red tipped legs and gave Jim a hard jab in the stomach, causing him to fling backwards against the brutish Mr. Hands, who readily caught him, placing a rocky, sturdy hand on either of the comparatively ant-ish boy's shoulders. He leered down lasciviously, restlessly kneading his fingers against Jim's flesh. Merely being pressed up against the muscle pile and feeling the sleek black lock trailing from his chin swish over the top of his head caused Jim to constrict and tense.

The way the beast jostled him around disoriented all of his senses. As the monster effortlessly raised him from the floor and mangled his taut body, Jim grew dizzy and lost sense of his position. Although his eyes were wide open his brain made no sense of the whirl of colors submitted to it. Soon he couldn't tell if he was right side up or upside down, only felt a barrage of appendages, rough weathered skin, slimy, dripping tentacles and bony claws, stroking and pulling at him and a growing roar of hoots, whistles, and lecherous laughter resounded through out the room.

* * *

Whoosh, I'm beat. Now I remember why I stopped writing. I suck at it. It just drags on and on and on... Any way, feel free to leave comments, we're looking at probably two more chapters to go. I also want to write a fluffier one shot of these two, but the plot's looking weak, so we'll see.


End file.
